


Lilgreen Drabbles

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Double Entendre, Drabble Collection, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fellatio, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Kinks, Kitten, Lols, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Content, Small Penis, Smut, bestfriend!Dean, injured reader, puns, sanitary products, smut talk, stationery, typology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 03:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: A collection of all the drabbles





	1. Like Rosie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frecklesgonewild asked: Hi! I found out just before Christmas that I may need to buy a new car. My car, Rosie, has been in my family for 14 years, and I've been driving her for 12 of those years. She has been through so much of my life with me, and I am wrecked at the thought of saying goodbye. She's my version of Baby. Could you write a fluffy one shot or drabble about Dean comforting the reader (me) after saying goodbye to her car?

You’re giving yourself a bit of time in the garage.  Just half a hour or so, which you figure was closer to an hour now (maybe more?), to look at the space where Rosie used to be and just… Twelve years is a long time to have a car. You know you’ll need another ride, and soon. You can’t afford to take your time but you don’t want some rebound junker, and no pathetic make-do plastic cut-out.  You want a car that’s worthy of all that you do and the people who’ll sit in it.  You want Rosie back.

…

The guy at the wreckers didn’t have to be such a douche.  

“Can I get a moment?” you’d asked, not even hesitating.

“What?” he scoffed, grey cigarette bouncing on his stringy lip.  “With you  _car?”_

“Yeah, just a moment with- with my car?” you repeated.

“Whatever,” he scowled, “but I’m moving it in 15.  After that I’ll be charging by the hour.”

You scowled back and decided to get out there for your last 15 with the sweetest ride you’d ever known.

They followed you out and - as you sat there one last time running your hands over the wheel and feeling the contours of the seat, remembering all the late nights and chats and food wrappers and sing-alongs - you heard Dean comment to him, “You didn’t have to be such a douche.”

Yeah.

…

Now you’re staring at her old space, trying to imagine a different car, something that suits the gap beside Baby and will work for the job.  Something with a decent trunk and a tenacious engine… ah, you just can’t stomach it yet.  Another 10 minutes had got you no glory, so off you go, kicking the concrete and trying not to trip over your bottom lip.

You find Dean in the kitchen, cleaning up some mess that mostly gets between you and some comfort food.

“There you are,” he cheers, “let me clean up.”

“What?” you grumble.  “What for?”

“I got a surprise for you,” he says proudly, which sucks coz you don’t really have any surplus thanks today.  

“Oh,” you muster some pitch, “yey! I mean, yeah!  That sounds good.”

He glances at you in sympathy and goes to the fridge, pulling out a cake.  It’s iced white with some brown lines over the top and when he places it before you - well, no,  _several seconds_ after he places it before you - your brain pieces together all the stripes and dots into a kind of car.  Presumably your car… going really fast?  Sideways?

“Oh!” you say, meaning to add more but you distract yourself with the idea that if you get closer to the benchtop and look at it from an angle it’s like Rosie but from the ground, sorta…

Dean’s watching you with an intense frown.

“Oh wow!” you try again.  “That’s my car!”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “I haven’t drawn with icing before. And I’m not that much of an artist-”

“No that’s definitely Rosie.  ’S'not anyone else,” you assure, somewhat weakly.

He looks at you and your pathetic attempt at gratitude.  You almost wince, twisting it into a feeble smile instead.

You suck in a breath and declare “I’m taking a picture.”

“What, no-”

“I’m  _taking_ a picture.  That’s special, that is.” You pull your phone from your pocket.

“Yeah, okay, there’s no need-”

“Get out of the light,” you wave him off and snap a shot from above. “Actually, I might just…” you mutter and lower the phone, angling a shot across the top of the shiny surface.

“Yeah,  _okay_ ,” Dean gripes, shifting the cake away, “ _Thank you_.”

“What?!” you cry. “I want to capture the… special.”

You chew your lips and hold your breath.

Dean glares at you, unaware of his own pout.  “You’re special,” he grumbles.

“Oookay,” you put your hands up in surrender.  “Okay, I’m sorry.  It smells delicious and dude, icing is  _hard_.  I love it.”

“Icing  _is_ hard…” he takes a deep breath and sigh at the stripes. “…Looks like I did it on a boat.”

You nod.  “In a storm.”  

He flicks a glare at you from under his brow but he’s smirking too.  You smirk back and it lightens you.

“Really Dean, you’ve been awesome.  This would’ve been so much harder without you.” You take his hand and squeeze as you say “I really appreciate it.  Really.”  And he squeezes back.

You look at him hopefully, tilting your head further and further until he cracks a proper smile and, to your relief, pulls you in for a hug.  Those big meaty arms and warm chest help, stealing moments of your attention with his form so close and comforting.  You close your eyes and feel his heavy, warm hand smooth down your hair.

“I was trying to think of the next… trying to move on a bit,” you say.

“Naw,” he strokes again, talking into your forehead, “too soon.  How about you drive Baby for a while until someone turns up.”

“Really?” you look up at him in surprise, letting your belly lean on his.  “You’d let me drive Baby? Without you?”

“Sure,” he smiles at you, shrugging a little, “You’re great with her.”  He watches your smile spread, and tries to smother his own when he adds quietly “And she loves you…”

He pauses, or you pause.  Someone’s breath catches and stumps you both.

You put your forehead to his chest and let it all out through tight, hopeful lips. “Yeah… got someone special there.”

He drops his head down by yours, pulls you tight, and then a kiss - that’s a kiss, you’re sure of it – a kiss on your ear.  “Sure do.”


	2. Rub It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five Minute Challenge, tagged by canoncanoff (an honour)

“What’s this?”

“It’s my foot.”

“Yeah I can see that.  What’s it doing on my leg?”

“It needs a rub.”

“Y/N, seriously-”

“You owe me Sam.“

“Y/N that was four days ago.  I helped you into the bunker, I iced it, I brought you food, I freaking lent you my laptop when yours went flat.  We’re even.”

“You hurt me so badly Sam.  It’s still purple, right there,” you say, pointing to the patch on your thigh.  “Rub my foot.”

“No!”

“Rub it-”  
“No-”  
“Rub it!”  
“Y/N!”  
“Rubitrubitrubit _RUBIT_ -”  
O- _KAY_  but this is the last thing!”

You snuggle down into the couch a little and smugly chirp “Thank you!”

Sam grabs your foot huffily.  He centres it in his lap so he can mindlessly knead your sole and refocus on the movie.  His scowl doesn’t last long.  After a few minutes he gives it a summarising pat and decides he’s finished.

“Bit more,” you wiggle at him.

He glares at you but obligingly works a few more kneading strokes through the muscles.  Then stops.

And then he turns his body and lifts your foot, collecting your other one so that he can pull his leg under yours.  Now he’s facing you at the other end of the couch, your legs between his and on his lap, his legs on the couch either side of your waist.

—- end of the five minutes, but there’s more!—-

* * *

You twitch an eyebrow at him suspiciously until he plonks one of his feet on your belly, making you  _ooff_  in surprise.

“Now you owe me,” Sam declares.

“For what?” you frown.

“For that foot rub I just gave you,” he explained aloofly.  “You know, the one after the one that made us even.”

“I’m not big enough to rub your foot,” you decide, “and that bruise still hurts! So no, I shan’t be rubbin’ no sasquatch paw today.”

Sam sits up and  _tells_  you “Rub. My. Foot.”  He’s full of mocking threat and you don’t know what’s coming but you ain’t scared of no couch potato.

“Ohmygod,  _No._ ”

“Right,” he mutters, then collects your ankles and starts tickling your feet, sending you into convulsions of protest and trying to reach forward enough to stop him.  (Completely undoing the massage, mind you.)

“Uh!  Nuh-h-h! Sa-h-h-ham!  Sto-h-h-hop! [deep breath]  _Knock it off!”_   The bastard is cunningly pushing your shins back to the cushions so you can’t bend yourself enough to reach him and get him to stop.  You twist and fight but he’s giggling in triumph, until you grab his foot and return the favour.  He tries to warn you, in vain, before the delicious sound of him helplessly laughing has you smiling in delight. And then, of course, it all ends in tears.

You gasp sharply and cry out “ _ **OW!**_   Fuck!”

“Ohshit!” Sam leans forward to see what’s happened.  “What’d I do?”

“God you corked me in the butt with your heel!”

“Shit!  You okay?”

“No you bony fucker!” you rub vigorously on the rise of your butt cheek, wincing at the deep ache.  “Right on the sitting bone.”

“I’m sorry,” he says forlornly, and places his hand over yours as you work into the sore patch.  “Is it going to need ice?” he asks with a small smile.

“If you could just press your cold heart to it then yeah, I’ll be just fine!” you snipe back, trying your damnedest not to smile too.

“Aw-haw,” he coos, and leans over, crawling up the couch so he can reach you properly.  He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your track pants and pulls it down to the where you’ve been kneading.  “Here?” he asks, pointing with his other finger.

“Sam!” you say in surprise, then watch wide-eyed as he leans down to kiss the spot.  “What are you doing?!”

“Kissing it better,” he replies blithely.

“What?!!”

“Well, I don’t have any ice,” he says, bouncing little pecks around the redness, “and my heart isn’t that cold, not around you anyway.”  He looks up at you to check your reaction, which is to bite your lips together and try not to laugh and when you can’t hold it together any more you put your hand over your face because it’s just too much.

When you peek through your fingers he’s smiling at you, right there, his chin resting just beyond the pale crest of your hip bone.  Then, in one smooth motion, he moves up your body and comes nose to nose with you, holding himself over you.

“Should I rub it better too?” he asks, spreading his fingers wide under your pants and pressing his palm into the bruise.

“Mmm,” you nod, “I think I’ll need something to distract me from the pain.”

He grins all the way down, landing warmly on your lips and humming when you push your fingers into his hair.  You pull him close, tilting his head and you both open your mouths for each other, tasting and licking gently.  He lets himself down to rest against you, using his grip on your ass to shift you under him so he can surge against you a little.

“Where else does it hurt?” he mumbles on your lips.

“Mmm, it doesn’t so much hurt as ache,” you tell him.

“Right,” he smiles against you, “well I can help with that.”


	3. Ow my rib

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jazzcrackers asked: As boring and pathetic as it may sound I cracked my rib in a violent coughing fit. I've been getting them quite frequently because I've been sick for a month. It's totally fine if it's just a ficlet that'd be perfect😊😊  
> ...  
> OK, I’m guessing your name is Madison? (No, that’s not a feeling, I looked at your blog. Yeah, I’m sleuthy.) If not, then it is today! (If not, let me know, I’ll repost with your real name.) I do not feel like a sex-hotline worker at all.   
> Here you go darlin’ - I hope it doesn’t make you laugh _oh shit I’ve just realised what I’ve done I”M SO SORRY._ I dunno, hope you like it anyway. (gulp!)

You’re sitting at exactly a 60 degree angle, on four pillows.  Around you is a little fort of comfort - ipad, chocolate, hot drink in a thermos, sweating bottle of cold water, a book Dean is pretty sure you like, a spare book in case he’s wrong, some candy, and your phone.

The door unlatches and you hear him murmuring “Okay, oookay,” and he’s backing into your room with a tray of soup, dipping bread, some sliced apple and napkins.  “Okeydokey, gotcha some good food here.”

“Dean, you really don’t have to do this-”

“I know, you said, but I am,” he dismisses, carefully putting the tray on the desk.  He collects the bowl of soup, settles into a chair, gingerly stirs the hot broth and lifts his eyebrows at you.  Ready?

“Dean!”  You’re trying so hard not to grin.

“What?”

“It’s a broken rib, not a cold!”

“But you’ve had this cough thing for ages-”

“I’m not  _soup_  sick, not any more. It’s a  _broken bone_.”

“And it’s my fault.  I was the one who made you laugh till you coughed too hard,” he says, adjusting himself and readying to feed you.  “C’mon open up.”

“Holy cow, I’m not being fed soup.  Give it here,” you say.  You reach your arms out in frustration and reach too far.  “Oooh!” you gasp.

Dean freezes and looks at you.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter.  “Give me the damn bowl.”

“Nu-uh,” he says.  “I’ll tie your elbows to your waist before you get this bowl.”

“Jesus Jones,” you sigh.

Dean pulls the chair closer and lifts the bowl so it’s just below your face, the steam wetting your chin and nose.  He drags the spoon through the soup and lifts it as carefully as removing an eyelash from your cheek.  His brow goes from furrowed to risen in the few inches or so he has to reach and mimics you opening your mouth as you receive the good food.  “Theeere we go,” he soothes.  “Yum huh?”

“Christ on a cracker.”

“You want crackers?-”

There’s a quiet knock at the open door and Sam pokes his head through.  “Hey Maddy,” he says glumly.  “How you doin’?”

“Hey Sam, I’m okay.  I’m a bit sore from sitting still for so long-” You glare at Dean, and he glares back coz you’re talking and not eating. “-but I’m otherwise okay.”  You have another spoon of soup.

“Yeah, well, you’ve still got that cough, so we should get your rib better as soon as possible.”  He nods with a doctor-like seriousness as he sits in the armchair.  Dean feeds you another spoonful.

“How are you going? Any cases pop up?” you ask.

“Nooo, nope.  I’ll quiet,” he shrugs a sad smile.  “Yeah.”  More soup.

“Are you okay?” you ask.  “You seem a bit down.”

You notice Dean’s eyes snap to Sam and Sam sits up a little in response.  “Uh, no.  No, I’m fine.  I’m happy!” he recovers.  It’s altogether too weird.  Soup.

“Sam.  What are you doing?” you ask.

“I’m just,” he glances at Dean before he confesses.  “We thought, maybe, we should keep you relaxed, no excitement.  No… mirth.”

You’re still confused and definitely not satisfied.  Dean glares at Sam for his obvious shortcoming.  So Sam takes a breath and tries again, “Just, you know, keeping it low key.  No shenanigans. So you don’t… you know…”

You look at Dean, almost bumping into the ready spoon.  He staring at your lips, jaw dropped to encourage you to do the same.  He sees at your curious expression and answers by solemnly nodding with a deep frown.

“Do you mean,” you ask Sam, try to control your mouth, “you’re trying to keep me from laughing?”  You blow a tight breath, cheeks dimpling.

Sam blushes red, having clearly failed.  

You bite your lips together and hold your breath, feeling yourself flush red too.

Dean puts the spoon in in the bowl.  _“Get out!”_  he hisses and starts waving Sam out the door.  “Get outta here!”

Sam dashes out, spluttering “Sorry!  Sorry Madison!”

“You  _dickhead_ ,” Dean whispers harshly.   _“Get the hell out!”_

“Oh my god!” you put your hand to your mouth, trying so hard not to laugh, but it’s hopeless and you’re quickly bouncing and clutching your side in pain.

“No!  No-no!!   _Maddy!  No!”_  Dean puts the bowl down and waves his hands around you, like a distraction will help.  He hesitates and thinks as you wince and giggle, desperately trying to figure out how to comfort, then whispers “Can I hug your head?”

Out comes the ugly laugh and you’re barely breathing, eyes tearing up over Dean and your rib.  He kneels on the bed, awkwardly walking his knees up with his arms outstretched, aiming to hug you like some unfortunate pelican.  He gingerly lays over you with his ass sticking out and pats you, hushing “Shshshshsh, shu-shu-shu-shu, shhhh Maddy, Sam’s not funny, shu-shu-shu, Sam’s never funny…”


	4. Mr Smith comes home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to explain... so mrswhozewhatsis made a spreadsheet of everyone's tag preferences, and somehow it all spiralled out into a stationery kink discussion. deandoesthingstome wrote this [Notes](https://deandoesthingstome.tumblr.com/post/139693555506/notes) ficlet. Then I lost my way... 
> 
> Dean returns from Florence, Italy, with some really nice things for you.

Okay Michelle. [I was happy to sign off on those products before.](http://littlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com/post/139654881297/i-did-a-thing) We can blow the budget a little. But reading talk about locked pen cabinets, clean notebooks and German stationery stores ( _fuck_  - screw you with a Phillips-head Charlie, I’m amongst family over here! You  _and_ your drabble (wait for it)), and then you go and talk office smut?  Well, you all got me thinking. You ready? Coz I just finished filing my nails.  

We’ll have this discussion below the cut (brought to you by the sharpest bench-top guillotine you’ve ever run your thumb along).

Let’s talk about your…  _Home office_.  

Charlie’s right.  The weight of a pen can make or break your writing.  Hell, half the time it decides how long the letter actually is.  You know I care. I  _know_  you care.  You care about the loop of the letter and flow of the word.  You’ve had your fair share quick brown foxes jump over lazy black dogs, just to see how each letter dances out of that pen. 

And it’s all very well to get folks signing out the laminator and marking out half inch columns at the office.  I know Mr Smith appreciates your efforts with the staff, patiently training them to use the hole punch and staple functions in the photocopier, from their own PC’s no less.  I know because he told me.  He’s been wondering.  If you’re this good at work, with your military precision and matronly management, what’re you like elsewhere?  If you’re all crackin’ the whip in the office, even if there is the odd “unauthorised requisition” between the partitions, are you hiding some lace somewhere? 

So let’s talk about your home office,  _just in case._

Do you have, for instance, somewhere nice to keep your best paper?  You better.  Mr Smith’s finally returned from Italy (I mean, it’s nice, and the coffee is…  _well._   But he misses things.  And people.)  Did you know, he went to Florence…

…and he was thinking of you.  Dammit, it took him the better part of an afternoon in there, got himself late for a dinner meeting and all, trying to decide between scrolls of decorative paper, writing sets or notebooks.  And then what kind of notebook? Hard cover, soft cover, paper cover or leather, hand made or machine turned, what paper weight, water coloured or traditional Florentine patterns…  and he wouldn’t dare consider  _linea carte._   After 40 minutes of pacing between walls of shelving, the woman behind the counter had mercy and asked “Posso aiutarla signore?”  “Sto cercando un regalo speciale" he replied. 

In the end it was a journal, covered in modestly embossed soft leather, mid-tan and hand-bound, with individually made pages, rough-edged and sewn in place, a simple string of leather to wrap around.

He is hoping, too, that you have yourself a nice bureau to sit at… what am I gunna tell him?  Have you got yourself a good work space there, something that befits your elegance?  None if this cramping it out on the kitchen bench, Michelle. You need a space of your own.  I know he’d like you looked after.

You know what I recommend?  One that folds open to a desk.  Gee it’s nice to have precious things kept safe huh?   You can open it up and find everything where you left it, compartments for different pens, perfectly sized shelves for your A5 note paper, and little drawers for  _goodness_  knows what.  And then, when it’s all packed and closed, it’s beautiful and neat in the room.  Such an interesting shape too, with the angle of the closed lid… 

I’m betting you have a few decent pens around the house, at least something reliable by the front door so you can sign for deliveries.  Good.   Young Sam Wesson’s on his way over with a package - should’ve arrived already, in fact.  Something Mr Smith picked up in Italy and I have no doubt, none, that you won’t love it.

Speaking of, Mr Smith was wondering if you’d be home this afternoon? He’ll probably come around, straight from the airport I’d say, knock on the door with his suitcase, suit bag over his shoulder and stand on your doorstep, hoping you won’t mind this kind of surprise. He’ll be feeling stale and tired but when you open the door it’ll just slip away.  He’ll come in, slump his gear by the door.  Nah, he doesn’t need a drink, he’s good.  He steps close, sliding his hands over your hips and with a deep breath, the first proper breath he’s gotten since being State-side, he’ll kiss you, soft, full, humming, all  _There you are_  and  _My hands missed you_. It’s refreshing. 

He’ll want to know if you got the package - what did you think? “I was waiting for you,” you’ll say. “Bring your bags.” You can pop up the case’s handle while he collects the bag over his shoulder, one hand’s fingers soon threaded through yours, other hand wrapped warmly at your wrist. You’ll lead him down to the spare room, and drop the luggage again.  He’ll go directly to the bureau, collecting the small parcel, and he’ll wonder if you have any idea how prescient it is that you put it here.   He’ll hand it to you and you’ll open the card. “Ah, Venice,” it says on the envelope.   
“Did you quote Indiana Jones?”   
“A little.” 

You’ll gasp his name, immediately open the bureau and sit down, pulling a heavy piece of A5 paper from a shelf.  You find another scrap, something to rest the ink bottle on, and ready yourself to write.  The quill feels cool, with an interesting weight, a little different to what you’re used to.  You dip the nib, gently drag it on the rim and find it rests itself on the paper perfectly, merely cradled by your hand, gliding over the paper as you write  _Dean_ , smoothly, easily, like your fingers simply ask the quill to make it.  Like it’s the first word you write every day.

“Nice?” he’ll ask.

“Perfect,” you’ll sigh.  “And beautiful.”

He’ll lean down behind you, close enough for his voice to thrum over your neck and shoulder.  “[I got your letter](http://deandoesthingstome.tumblr.com/post/139693555506/notes).”

Dean will pull the journal out of his suit pocket and place it by your hand.  You’ll lay the quill by the ink, nib over the paper, recap the little bottle, and push your fingertips over the elegant designs on the leather.  You’ll rack your brain for what else has ever felt so smooth and perfect - whipped cream? Kitten fur?  There is a patch on Dean, actually, that’s so soft you’re not even sure you can truly feel it-

“Do you like it?”

“Dean, there’s nothing I have to say that’s worth putting in here.”

“I knew you’d say something like that,” you hear him smile.  He’ll reach around you and unwind the thong from around the journal, opening it up, saying “I wrote back.”

The paper is full of black ink, Dean’s script filling the space for this and the next three pages.  “Dear Michelle,” it begins, and your eyes catch the words  _skin_ ,  _heat_ ,  _want_ , and  _please_  before he collects the top edge of the page and slowly pulls down.

Your gasp of “What are you doing?!” blends with the sound of ripping.  You’ll feel his breath bounce by your jaw, little huffy laughs, as he tears out the pages he used, listening to you make small sad sounds for every one.

Closing the book and sliding it aside, he’ll pull a handful of items from his other pocket: a zippo lighter, a stick of wax - probably burgundy - and a stamp of a bold “D”.  He’ll stack the pages, folding the top and bottom edges to overlap, then lean his elbows on the desktop, his cheek against your ear.  You’ll watch him snap open the flame and hold the stick over the heat, both of you listening to the wax dollop onto the paper.  Once he’s happy with the shining mound, he’ll roll the stick to pick up the drips, then carefully place the seal over the redness.  The cooling wax makes a faint peeling sounds as the stamp is pulled away.

Dean will swap the stamp for another in his pocket, one with a cursive “M” for you.   He’ll place it. with the wax and lighter, atop the letter and slide them into the recess of the desk.  “For later,” he’ll murmur, then kiss behind your ear.

You’ll tilt and remember what this feels like, and he’ll suggest, “I wanna give you something else to write about…"

Lips and fingers drag over your throat as you push the desk up, closing the bureau and standing. His face will be rough and warm in your hands, lips generous and eager. You’ll find his wallet in a back pocket and pull out the condom, placing it in his hand as an instruction while you work your panties off from under your skirt.  With his trousers loose and jangling, you lead him to sit, then straddle his lap, humming as he gets his fingers into your warm, damp curls. “How are you already so wet?” he’ll sigh, nosing at your neck and chest.

“Dean, you bought me a Venetian quill, leather-bound Florentine paper and a fucking hot wax sealing kit. You’re lucky I’m not already done.”

He’ll lead himself into you, both of you coming to a stop, letting your bodies meet again after time apart. When his long, thick fingers gather up your skirt, tuck under the fabric to feel the generous fat of your hips, you’ll rock onto him and not stop until he says.

And he will, soon enough, because you’ll feel too good, and smell too sweet, and hide his face all too well in those warm corners you offer, but what he wants, too, is to have you over that bureau.

But before that, it will occur to him that maybe if he, yeah- he’ll help you stand, bending himself to meet you and lean you back against the closed desk, the angle of the lid allowing you to tilt back slightly, your bust presented and your skin shining.

The aspect is perfect and Dean can see all the way from your hairline to his cock, even when he gets his fingers down there to catch you up. It’ll become fast, sweaty and surprising for you, making you gallop toward the end, and he’ll be thankful because, between the flight, the work, and missing you… Well, he just wants to give you all he’s got.

You know, the aftermath with Dean is all cuddles and slow gazes and this time you’ll get him to sit again, sliding into his lap before opening the bureau lid once more.

He’ll watch you begin to create your routine already - journal open, ink out, uncap bottle, collect quill, dip, drag and-

“Dear Dean, Let me tell you about the things you do to me…”


	5. Generous Terrain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 minute challenge, tagged by mrswhozeewhatsis

“So this is the location we’re aiming for, right here,” Sam pointed at the map.  

You craned your neck to get a better look at the terrain and frowned a little.  It was unusual to see such symmetry in nature, but you could tell from the contours on the map, the gathered curves of the topography, that the three of you would be trekking up the middle of two large, voluminous peaks.  Very large. And voluminous.  And symmetrical.

You cupped your hand a little and slid it’s edge along the curve of the easternmost mound, nudging your thumb over a little icon in it’s centre.  “What’s… this feature here?”

“Uh…” Sam ran his finger along the legend to see, while Dean stood behind him, smirking to himself.  “A cellular tower.”

“Jesus,” you sighed.  “Those things are just begging to be climbed.”

Dean ran his hand over his mouth.

“And this one?” you rub your fingertips over the westernmost hill.  “Got anything worth taking a lick at?”

“A what?”

“A look, lookee-see.  A peek at the peak.”

“Uh, no?”

“How do you know?”

“I just.  I don’t-”

“Maybe you two should make your way over… here,” you say, running your curved hands over the two crests, “and I should just mmmmotor up the middle.  Hope for the breast?”

“What?”

“Just give it a crack?”

“Oh my god,” Dean groaned.  “Sam, can you not see what we see?”

“I see a piece of national park-”

“Boobs dude!!” he cries.  “It looks like two boobs.”

Sam frowns and stares at the gradients and elevations, tilting his head a little.  

“Come on Sam!” you encourage.  “Is that not the most remarkable piece of landscape you’ve ever  _come across?”  
_

[Originally posted by itsokaysammy](https://tmblr.co/ZQ40gv1xUd8RI)


	6. Pudding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitten grade fluff for but-deans-back-tho, because of [this clip](https://zackisontumblr.tumblr.com/post/129872323880) and the plaid shirt.

“Oh you are so cute… yes you are… is that nice? yeah? …yeah, that’s nice innit?…”

Dean is crooning to something, in his room, all quiet and smooth.  You’re paused outside in the hallway, racking your brain for what he could really be saying, and to who.  Or what…  _Oh god,_  you close your eyes,  _please don’t let this be the way he talks to his dick._

“Oh you’re cheeky _._ You like that?-” _  
_

“Dean?” Scuffling bursts from the gap in the door and you push it open further.  “You okay?”

You hear scrambling and shoving and you step into the room to see him on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, arms crossed languidly over them, finishing a slow blink and… bouncing a little?

“Who are you talking to?”  Yes, bedrooms are private, but if he’s going to go to the zoo early you want a little notice.

“No one.”

“What kind of no-one?”

“…”

“Are you seriously talking to yourself like that?”

_Miew!_

It’s faint, but Dean’s eyes pop, just for a second, and he coughs.  You stare at him.  He frowns and shakes his head _No, it’s nothing_.  

_Mi-ew!_

You glare at him, pretty sure you heard a cat.  He shakes his frowny head again;  _Definitely not that_.

_Miew!_

“Oh! My! God Dean!  You bitched about us getting a cat and then you go and bring home one yourself?  Where is it?”

“No, go away!” he gets up, turning his back to you to guard wherever the box is.  “I’m not sharing her with you!”

“What?!” you’re affronted.  “Have you ever cared for a pet before?”

“No, can you help me?” he pleads, moving around the side of his bed and kneeling to reach under.

“What happened to not sharing?”

“I’m sorry, I just… she’s so little!” He pulls the box out and you lean over to see a little black and white ball of fur.  Immediately the kitten starts scrambling up the plastic wall towards Dean.  He scoops a big hand under her, cooing “Hey sweetheart, you’re okay.  I’m sowwy I put you under the bed.”  Cupping the little thing in both hands, he hunches his shoulders and he lifts her to his neck, the only place that feels like a hug when she’s so small.  The kitten nudges a little, but seems to ignore him, mewling almost constantly now and beginning to climb his shirt, searching around.

“I think she’s hungry,” you tell him.

“Too young for meat, right?”

“Yeah, we’ll need to get some special milk I think.” You sit on the bed.  “Can I have a cuddle?”

Holding the kitten in both hands he reaches her out to you, but not to hand her over.  He just holds her under your chin as she starts sniffing your skin, the little whiskers and puffy breaths tickling you.  

“Dean, this is not a hold,” you say flatly.

“Good as it gets, Y/N,” he says sternly.  “Cuddle it up.”

You sigh and slide your fingers over her fur.  “Hey little cutie… Got a name yet?”

He thinks for a bit, seriously wondering if  _Mine_ could pass as suitable.  “Pudding.”


	7. Carpenters Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for but-deans-back-tho, Sam and Dean discuss the low down about doin' the diddly do with a lady. (Fingering. They talk about fingering.)

“My, you do have some capable hands there.”

Sam looked at the woman over the counter, wondering what about signing this fake signature denoted ‘capable hands’.  “Thank you,” he coughed.

“Carpenter’s fingers,” she quipped, smiling her most coquettish smile.

Sam’s mouth and eyebrows all curved the same way as he tolerated her doting flirt and got on with his work.

She leaned against the counter while he checked over the form, twisting herself to show off as many curves as possible.  He couldn’t really tell what age she was - older than him, he suspected, but then he was starting to wonder how old he looked these days too.

She pursed her smile and gathered the page, turning back to the desk to sort out the evidence request.  Sam turned back to Dean, who’d been waiting to his left, and seamlessly resumed their conversation.  “Yeah I always use lube.”

“Really?” Dean asked, a little more hushed than usual.  The cage around her workspace was hardly a sound barrier.  “Isn’t it messy?”

“Worth it,” Sam shrugged, turning and leaning his hips against the benchtop.  “Totally worth it.  Can’t remember the last time I went dry.”

“Fair enough,” Dean sighed pragmatically.  “I mean, I keep it around, for you know-”

“Oh hey, what happened with uh…”

“Claire.”

“Yeah, Claire.  She seemed nice.”

“She was,” Dean nodded and leaned in to very articulately say  “ _Enthusiastic_. And vocal.  A good night.”

Sam nodded, making listening faces at the floor while they waited.

Then Dean had a thought.  “Hey, can I ask-”

“Yeah.”

“- I always, and I mean always, get down there first.  You know, give thanks, say a prayer-” Sam smirked at his euphemism for oral sex, “-and that usually ends up with a few come-hithers.” Dean tries to not gesture with his fingers, but it’s instinctive. “But she seemed really annoyed by that.”

Sam looks up at his brother curiously.

“You ever found that?” Dean asks.

“Uh, no,” Sam thinks.  “Not that I recall.  But I have had someone prefer one to two.”

Dean’s eyebrows pop at such an unexpected report.  More is usually, well, more.

“Dude maybe she just really wanted, you know… sex,” Sam offers.  “Don’t dwell on it.  It’s probably a compliment.  I mean, she wanted you, right?”

Dean thinks hard about how to not be offended, only to be interrupted by the woman they’d obviously not noticed.

“For shame!!” she burst.  “You need to respect women more!”

Dean started and stood tall, ready to indeed be ashamed, but quickly frowned at her - wasn’t she flirting just a minute ago? No need to feel spurned, lady.

Sam, however, turned at her outburst and looked at her sternly.  “What was disrespectful about that?”  He put his hand on the evidence she’d retrieved and dragged it across the bench.

The woman struggled to back up her point, her lips wobbling like a water bed.  “You shouldn’t discuss your conquests,” she sputtered scandalously, “like that!”

“I’m helping my partner feel better about his evening,” Sam said plainly.  “I’m not sure what’s so disrespectful about that.”

“Well, no one needs to hear about you and-”  She gestured around his general person. “And-”

Sam stood still and broad and talked with a little more gravity than usual.  “My terribly.  Capable.  Fingers?” He twitched, just slightly, in question, and she gulped at herself, her gaze involuntarily dropping to his large hand draped over the parcel.

Sam collected the pen and signed the Chain of Custody form.  Then she watched as he slowly slid the clipboard toward her clenching fists, using just his pointer and index fingers, side by side, straight and long.

She looked up at him and he blinked, instantly shifting his demeanour into something calculating and heated, with a private smile that would haunt her dreams for a month, before turning and heading for the door.

Dean leaned over and commented “‘Carpenters fingers’.  Haven’t heard that before.”

She glared, inflating as she prepared a rebuke, even opened her mouth to talk-

“Though he does work with a lot of wood.”  Dean winked, knocked twice on the counter, and followed his brother out.


	8. Padded wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by @nichelle-my-belle's work.

Dean frowns at Sam, focusing on his words, while you patch up his arm.  Then, after a good look at your first aid box you realise… you don’t have it.  You’re out of swabs, out of- well, out of what you need. Without too much thought, you reach for your back pocket and pull out what you’ve got, mind only half on Sam’s words about a new weapon… “So, yeah, I’m not sure it’d work, but we could try-”

“Did you-?” Dean’s words interrupt everyone.  “What is this?”

“Wha?” You look at him, slack-jawed…  “What? It’s absorbent.  It’s sanitary.” What’s the problem?

You look at Sam, who’s looking extremely thoughtful.

Dean asks you, deep and quick, “Did you seriously just put a sanitary napkin on my arm?”

“It’s got a sphagnum core,” you offer helpfully.

“Oh it’s  _modern,_ ” he says.

You scoff, indignant, a little offended he doesn’t appreciate your resourcefulness.  “Jeez it’s not like you don’t bleed like one of us.”

“Hey!”

“Look at these sheets!”

Dean scowls, turns his arm over to look at the work, and seems reluctant to compliment it.  “It’s gunna suck the blood right out of me-”

“Oh my god,” you groan, slapping things back into the box.  “You are  _such_  a p-”

_“Don’t even!”_

“Pansie.”


	9. Kimmy Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for ilostmyshoe79

“What’s true form kink?” 

“Hmm?” Kimmy’s not listening. She’s squirm deep in a list that’s got her curling every bone under the rug, snuggling on the couch and pretending to concentrate on super important serious things. Not whatever Dean’s on about. 

“True form kink?” He says. “Someone’s got a link list up here. Jesus, fisting’s gotta be a job.” 

Kimmy blinks a little frown. She’s looking at her phone, wallowing in all the crazy shit people share with her, biting her lip at the luck of finding like minds. 

“But bondage, I could get behind that,” he says casually and sips his coffee. 

At that, Kimmy starts to really listen. “Sorry, what?” 

“Well, I know the fandom is  _broad_ ,” he shrugs, “but a good idea’s a good idea. I mean, you wouldn’t mind a bit of edging, would you?” 

 _Rrrrrr!!_ , says her brain. He wants to edge her? He wants to see her struggle against her limits, watch her face as she holds off temptation and lord that over her while she- 

“Belly bulge,” Dean murmurs, “yeah I get that shit.” 

Oh  _God._  She wasn’t ready to hear that voice say those words. “Um, where are you getting that?” 

“On tumblr,” he says casually. 

Oh fuck! She left the laptop open! “Someone called [@ilostmyshoe-79](https://tmblr.co/m-0zBkMlrYlNzlSuoAc6o2w) is running a link list.” Dean comes over and sits on the couch, and he notices how tightly wound Kimmy is under that rug, her middle-ground stare and the blush in her neck and cheeks. He smirks a bit, dropping is voice to say “You wanna see what I can do with the handle of an angel blade, huh babe?” 

“Mm!” Kimmy whimpers. She closes her eyes and bites her lips between her teeth. If she wasn’t ready for that, she won’t cope with this: 

“Maybe you should tell me what pegging looks like,” he suggests, and she snaps her eyes to him, almost too scared to ask. 

“You want me to describe the pegging fic?” she peeps. 

“No,” he says, leaning over to smear the words on her ear, “I wanna know what you think pegging looks like with me.” 

“Hofuck!” 

A shimmer of sin ripples through her and Dean smirks, delighted, and abandons his coffee. “Wow. Babe, what else do you have a kink for?” he asks and slides his palm down and up her back. 

“Kinks,” she sighs. “I think I have a kink kink.”


	10. Sam feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @oriana75: Ali...... my love..... I need some Sam..... doesn't have to be smutty. I just need Sam. Help, please?

I keep thinking of the moment I’d finally get in there- okay hang on. So this daydream is a slllllightly canon divergent but so is my brain. (and also, thanks for the smut-freebie coz TW for panic) 

So it’d be clear from the outset that Thugtrollop and Whatsername want Sam and Sam alone. Actually alone.  You’re a pain in the butt - not unexpected, but an annoyance.  You’ll be in the back seat, strung up, ignored and chucked into some room on the ground level, thoroughly cuffed and forgotten about.

But you’re be able to hear it all.  Muffled tones of  _Oh you Americans_ , and what you’re pretty sure is Sam saying  _Screw You_ every which way, and the water mains thudding every time they turned the taps on and off, and the screaming.  The calling scream of him through what must be pain you can’t imagine - but you do.  You imagine everything.  The panic makes your muscles jitter and you shuffle on your hip, flicking your legs back and forth to search what you can reach and work out the adrenaline, clenching your jaw, muttering  _Sam, Sam, come on Sam, you can do this, you’re stronger than them_ and your feelings for him - like you could send your heart to his ear, wrap your spirit around him - your feelings race and leap _I’m here, I got you Bigs, Be strong with me, You’re strong, I got you! Sam!_  but his voice would keep going, as though you’ve having no effect, and you’d start to breathe through your teeth  _I’m here and I love you, I love you Sam._   Then his voice would stop pushing and start dropping, stumbling down the tones, and you’d slowly calm too, knowing full well that this time you’ve freefallen into a dedicated love for him, a to-the-end love, and vengeance.

So later, when he starts making noises like he’s fighting Lucifer again, you’re cursing your shakiness and frantically edging towards escape with floor nails and bent bedsprings, all precision lost through the blood you’ve torn from yourself with each wave of frustrated desperation, until finally, you’ve picked yourself free and the door open.

Like it’s scripted, you burst in the basement door as she slips to the ground and Sam stumbles away.  He’d say your name like he does at the end of a hunt. It always sounds like someone’s shoved it out of him, like he’s been holding it in, (this time especially though because it’s nearly the last name left. He’d almost lost his grip on the sound of it) but now he can wrap his mouth around it, not just tap it out to keep his brain from crashing but feel it long and aloud.

And that time between finding him and touching him is always a blank, in hindsight, but afterwards you’ll figure out the bruises on the head of each tibia are from dropping by his hips, a knee each front and back so you can press his head to your chest, feel him wrap his arms around you and breathe, his every exhale a thankful hum that comes with a pat or a press.

There’s a fresh bandage on his foot and he looks wrung out, literally - the smell of saline, lymph and fear, twisted from his own fabric.  He feels thin this time, wiry, nothing between his muscle and the air.  You rub his skin to remind him that there’s you there too, between him and things, and push his forehead into your neck.  That’s when he’d not just hug, but _pull_ , his arm curling around your waist, constricting for your presence, like your ribs have missed each other, and his hand gathering you, the rise of his thumb behind your ear and long trembling fingers finding stillness in your hair, tilting you so he can curve your neck over his eyes and nose, wrap you over his face and live in your  _home_ -ness for long, grounding moments.

That’s what I’ve been thinking about.    
That he holds you and thanks God that he hasn’t lost you too.


	11. What if Sam has a really small cock...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked Rhi: What if Sam actually has a really small cock, contrary to what everyone thinks?  
> And Rhi graciously allowed me to answer...

Sam’s one of the most impressive men you’ve ever laid anything on. Your eyes could barely map him, your hands couldn’t even find a fraction, and when he stood beside you all your skin would pull tight and tingly, like it was trying to crawl around your body and get some of that radiant glory.  And when you would finally, bravely, make eye contact - because polite people do this during conversation - his damn lips would sabotage you, rendering you deaf, apparently stupid, and you’d be asking him to repeat himself, again, even after all that staring.  Then the cycle of patient explanation, concern, more patience, like  _could the man just reveal a fucking flaw?!_ Just one! A lapse.  A tick.  A fart.  A n y t h i n g to level him within reach of you. Anything at all.  Hello?

Of course not.  

This was God being an utter wanker, dangling a man like Sam in front of you.  Show off.  

Even four solid drinks couldn’t unclench your jaw, but it did help you smile at the right times and then, miraculously, the planets aligned and you looked at him when he was looking at you.  “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“What’s your face doing?” Clearly your brain had left the room for a moment, maybe taking a leak.  “Are you sleepy?”

“I- No,”  Sam scoffed  “I was just looking at you.”

“Why?”

“I like it.” He shrugged and sipped his drink, with a petulant glance.  “Sorry. I like looking at you.”

This is when you heard your brain returning, frantic little footfalls, pants down, with a panicked, whimpering puff that got louder and louder until it threw itself against the partition that stands between your desires and your decisions, mashing itself against the glass with a muffled thud and screaming  _CLOSE YOUR MOUTH AND DO SOMETHING DICKHEAD_.

You blinked, leaned across the table and spoke to Sam in your most earnest voice: “I’m going to get more alcohol.”

…

More miracles: you’d nailed the perfect balance between grog and water and coming out of your peak-drunk hour wasn’t the messy shitshow it normally was.  It was still awkward, mockumentary-level awkward, with half sentences and open stares as you watched Sam not get ready for bed and not turn away from you.  “Are you gonna-?” Nod at the bathroom- “Or, um…” Deliberate swallow.

He stepped up, stepped closer, even paused a second on his way down to kiss you.  You turned your face for it, watched him kiss you once and check, then again, longer, warmer and soft.  He looked at you, twitched his brow as though he’d been tricked and kissed you a third time - the last time - hard enough to knock you back a step.

It was perfect.  A layer of drunkenness fell away and cold clarity dropped over you.  Sam could kiss like a fucking hero.  His hands were massive, his heat practically vibrating, and you grabbed at everything your fingers bumped into.  

You got his buttons undone and pushed the shirt off his shoulders, catching it on his elbows as he still cupped your face.  In the grey light the hilly shadows of his thin t-shirt made you whimper - he was hard and huge and perfect.

Off, off, off, each garment got a rough tug in whatever direction it should be headed, Sam taking every hint, pushing his forehead against yours while he undressed and said “Come on, catch up.” He snapped your bare bodies together so hard the skin smacked and the bones bruised.

Everything sounded like skin and air, hands driving up and down, threading through fast dishevelled hair, pushing over muscles, scratching back on skin, and breath pushed out noses and over cheeks and chests.  You’ve bucked your hips against him, dragged your mound over the rise of his thigh, wanting his heat between your own already.

There you can feel his dick hard against your belly, feel him breathe hard as your reach dives between you, collecting the length and absently you noticed the distance wasn’t great - there wasn’t much to tug, although the thickness was familiar enough.  But you didn’t care. It’s Sam, and he’s amazing.

“Y/N-” he started, your head in his hands for barely a second before you’ve disappeared south and sucked him down.

And it’s _easy._  Whatever effort you’d spent trying to deep-throat a man before, here was the reward.  Sure, he tipped your gag reflex, but your nose was in the curls faster than you could spell  _Gracias_ , and he’d barked a loud “Oh! God!” at the feeling of you humming in surprise.   _This_  you could do; this you could fucking rock.  You licked under him with your teeth against the top, sucked the length and fucking revelled in the wonderfully manageable length of his cock, swallowing over and over as you listened to him gasp and grab at you.  “Jesus-  Fuck-   _Y/N!_   Please st-  You don’t have to-  Hu-huh-uh-”

Okay, that sounded like a close call, so you pulled off and practically sucked his mouth to yours from inches away.  Sam wavered, unbalanced, grabbing your shoulders as you grabbed at his waist.

“Fuck me Sam.”

He punched out a grunt of surprise, and for a moment you wondered whether your vehemence was part pity.  You’re sure, somewhere, that you hadn’t met a dick this short before, and, surprised though you were, you weren’t sober enough to know if any of this was now about reassuring him of your enthusiasm.

Your mind banged on the partition again.   _IT’S SAM!_  It yelled, breath fogging on the glass.   _GIFT HORSE WOMAN!_

“You sure, Y/N?” Sam puffed against your lips.  Gorgeous Sam.  Smart Sam.  Sam who you couldn’t even look at without hearing bluebirds, even if they did tweet about your aching pussy.

“God yes Sam,” you nodded.  “Life’s too short.”  _Eeer,_  keep going.  He won’t notice.

You thumped your thigh on the corner of the bed, lunging for your bag and the condoms therein and busied yourself with tearing one from the others so you didn’t let yourself look at him.  Surely, you thought, his height would be an unfair comparison.  So you kissed him while he fumbled with the foil and latex, and led him back when his hands were free, threading the fingers and feeling him smile.

You smiled too, crawling onto the bed, pulling on his waist and arms as you opened your legs, guiding him to your pussy by the wrist.

He groaned hard, pushed his lips against yours so that your head hit the pillow, and took a moment to feel around your folds with a single fingertip, between the lips and down into your cunt, as though he was measuring the size, memorising shapes, and you hummed into him with surprise, wiggling uselessly at the tickle.  Then he turned his wrist and pushed two fingers into you, long and dexterous, held them still there while his thumb traced your lips, pushed between them to ghost over the inner creases, and started circling your clitoris.  You squirmed, sighing delighted, scratching at his shoulder. Then he moved, not much but enough to feel inside and search for something and you forced your mouth from his, turning your head to gasp hard and curse because that was it, that spot. Your heel drove down the comforter, the other hooking into his thigh, and you pulled on his elbow, asking for more.

Instead Sam took that hand, threaded his wet fingers between yours, lined himself up and pushed into you.

The thickness was perfect - not painful, but heavy, assertive.  Sam moved himself back and forth a few times, giving you friction, and found your mouth again for rolling kisses that tipped your head back, made your tongue reach out for him.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice shot with the effort of restraint, “how much I’ve wanted to get close to you.  And now you’re asking me to fuck you.”

“Pleading, Sam.” You slid your legs over his, pulled on his head with your spare hand and squeezed his fingers so that your knuckles ached.  “Please.”

Sam pulled back to thrust once, short and sharp, and you grunted for it.  Then he shifted himself down a little and did it again, tipping your g-spot. You groaned, letting your legs writhe hungrily, revelling in the width of those gorgeous hips between your thighs, his broad shoulders and chest shadowing you as you lay under him, under Sam.

“Hold still,” he told you.  Then he fucked, and again, and very quickly, with each beat, you realised his cock doesn’t drag past your g-spot like a longer cock might, he’s  _fucking_  it.  He’s right there, at that patch, rubbing  _into_ it without a break or a rest.  It’s just  _thisthisthisthis_.

“Ah! OH, FUCK! SAM!” Your voice squeaked high and tight a you squished your eyes shut, your legs hovering beside his hips, your toes curled tight enough to ratchet all the muscles up your body.  It’s relentless, triggering an electric hum across your lower belly like the speakers are turned all the way up, just waiting for that note.

Sam leaned down to kiss you and suddenly you grabbed hold of his head, letting the rest of you take his rhythm like he’s a horse down the straight, and just hope you’ll be okay.  “Fuck Sam,” you gasp, gritting your teeth, your voice bouncing desperately, “that’s it, ho fuck that’s fucking- it!”

He ducked under your jaw, pushed it up to get at your neck and kiss you, almost bit you, before shaking his hand free to get a thumb on your clit and you yelled out, letting your voice rip high as your whole pelvis and everything in it quaked.  Finally the angle changes and he’s let your orgasm go, fucking you until he felt his balls give the last.  His lips don’t leave you for a second.

Between you and the ceiling is the best man you know.  He’s huge, gorgeous, muscular and shining with sweat made from fucking the everloving daylights out of you.  You’re hot.  You’re thirsty.  Your brain is slowly sliding down the glass.  And you feel a little stupid really, for even letting the thought cross your mind that Sam might not know what to do with his somewhat-shorter-than-expected dick.  Sam’s got a damn perfect cock - that’s the truth - but mainly he’s got a woman he wants.  He’s got an opportunity.  And if anyone’s going to make the most of anything, of you, it would be 

Sam

Fucking

Winchester.


	12. Pavlov's Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a pic of a little red bell, the words "Ring for Sex" printed on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mrswhozeewhatsis and winchester-writes responded to this too. Their work cuts between my parts, but I'm only posting mine here. I'll summarise what's missing.

_*dingaling!*_

It took him a few moments, but Dean blinked his brain away from the book before him and looked at the library door.  Did he really just hear that?

“Did she just ring a bell for you?” asked Sam.

“Yah,” breathed Dean.  What the hell?  He gave you that bell last week because you were too sick to move.   _For when you need me to make you feel better,_  he’d goofed. You’d refused to use it though, of course, and Dean kept discovering you out of bed and exhausted, dramatically draped over the furniture as though you’d been concussed part way through a lyrical number.  

_*dingaling!*_

Dean leaned an elbow on the table and grasped the back of his chair.  It’s just that you were almost better… you wouldn’t  _need_  him…

“Rude.”  Sam shook his head.  “She shouldn’t just summon you for shit.”

And that’s when Dean realised, his legs straightening on his behalf.  

“Seriously?” Sam asks him.  “She rings a bell and you just come?”

Dean stares at Sam and clears his throat.

_*dingalingaling!*_

“I’ll just uh,” Dean points, sidestepping, “go see what she wants.”  But he doesn’t care that Sam’s shaking his head again: Dean’s jogging down the halls, and got his fly undone, thumbs in the waistband before he sees your door.  He lets his pants fall around his ankles and shuffles into your room, grabby hands and grinning. “You rang?”

“Oh my god!” you laugh.  “I wasn’t sure you’d figure it out!”

“You think I don’t know what that bell says?” He’s kicked off the pants from his feet and pulled his shirt over his head, started crawling onto the bed already.  “You need me to make you feel better Baby? Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

* * *

[@mrswhozeewhatsis wondered](http://mrswhozeewhatsis.tumblr.com/post/166322299726) ... (provided with her permission)

> Which leads me think about what happens after a few months. It doesn’t take Sam long to figure out what the bell means. He’s not stupid. He hears the bell, then he hears the noises only a couple of times before he makes the connection. Okay, maybe the stupid grin on Dean’s face every time he answers it helped, too. So, while Dean is getting conditioned one way, Sam is getting conditioned another way.
> 
> Which is all well and good until they walk into an old-fashioned mom-and-pop kind of store in a case. They’re in their Fed suits, canvassing the neighborhood for clues, when they walk in the store and a little bell above the door rings to announce their presence.
> 
> Dean has to grab something quick, which turns out to be a stuffed bear with hearts on its paws wearing a shirt that says, “I love you BEARY much” to hide his otherwise obvious erection. Sam, however, spends the whole interview annoyed and slightly nauseated. Thankfully, the owners knew nothing useful, because neither brother could fully concentrate on their job at that point.
> 
> You thought it was hilarious.

[@winchester-writes described](http://winchester-writes.tumblr.com/post/166323151606) why Sam would want to get rid of the bell, and why Sam wouldn't want to even touch the bell...

* * *

“Morning.”  Sam’s come back into the kitchen and sat down at his notes and coffee.  

You’re at the counter, making some breakfast, and feeling pretty fresh in your t-shirt and denim skirt.  “Hey Sam.” You shuffle side to side, from toaster to cupboard, making a coffee for Dean too, and every time you move, there’s a little tinkling sound.

Not that little though.  Sam can hear it.

And he hates it.  It’s the same damn tinkle he’s been hearing for months and as far he’s concerned it means rude interruptions and tooth-grinding annoyance.  It honestly feels like someone holding their finger up for an hour - “Just, one tick,” - And the only thing more annoying than waiting  _an hour_  was waiting 10 minutes because  _somehow_  Dean’s smug eyebrow-waggling gloat is inversely proportionate to how long it takes:  The quicker the “interruption”, the more swagger he swings.

But now, the more you move, the more sure Sam becomes that the tinkle is coming from you, but he can’t tell from where.  You’d turned a few times and he couldn’t see anything attached to your waist band.  No necklace or earrings, no bracelet.

When you turn with your plate of food, you stop short.  Sam’s glaring so hard only his eyebrows are keeping his eyes in his head.

“Holy crap Sam, what’s wrong?”

He says nothing, still glaring as you sat and the tinkling blessedly stops, and  _still_ glaring as you give up on an answer and bite into your toast.

Sam finally moves then, takes a breath, cranks his jaw out of the clench and laces his fingers, enrolling his whole body for a civil discussion.  “Do you think, maybe, you guys could give the bell a rest?”

You scowl at him, because you know the bell you’re wearing is why he’s bringing it up, but it isn’t  _that_  bell.  You yank a cat collar from your hip pocket, the bell so small it’s been hidden by chance, and lean your elbow on the table to show him what dangles from the buckle.  “It’s the key to a witch’s safe,” you say flatly, and chew your toast. “I know you’ve seen our bell, Sam. It’s got a frikken handle.”

“Yeah.  So?”

“Where the hell did you think I was hiding it?”

Sam’s gaze darts around your tight pockets and back to your unimpressed face.  “No- Not- Nowhere!  I didn’t-!”  He gives up, adds another decibel to his bitch face and rolls his tongue around his mouth until his blush recedes.

Dean walks straight in and sits beside you, slips one hand around his coffee and the other round your waist saying  “Hey, watcha guys talkin’ ‘bout?”  

“My spectacular floor muscles, apparently.”

Dean almost spits his coffee back into the cup.  “Sorry what?”

“That’s so gross, Y/N.”

“You brought it up.”  

“Brought up what?” asks Dean.

“Sam’s sick of the bell.”

Dean looks at you, then Sam, and as his gaze slips sideways he sips coffee and wonders if he could do with out the bell, too.  He hasn’t wanted to admit it, but he’s been avoiding bookstores and empty service counters, even skipped questioning the old ladies in case they have pets.  It’s still really hard to avoid bells.  His dick’s been going up and down like an inflatable tube man.

You lean into Dean and let your lips brush against his ear when you whisper  _Ding-a-ling_.  Automatically, helplessly, his focus drops into the middle-distance, pupils dilating, and he swallows a fresh flush of saliva.  He looks over at you and you try not to glow too hard at the sight of Dean being so ready to have you, so turned on by the thought of getting you, that it might be the next thing you do.  Pavlov would be so proud.

“Yeah we probably,” Dean croaks, clears his throat to try again. “Probably don’t need the bell any more.”

You tuck the cat’s collar back into your pocket, stand, and pay Sam a cordial nod before walking out the kitchen towards your room.  Dean abandons his coffee and follows the sound of the bell as though he’s blown on the breeze.  “Later, Sam.”

“Later,” sighs Sam, and he helps himself to your toast.

 

 


	13. We didn't ask for this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Hi! Would you please so kindly write a DeanxReader where they form a deep connection/bond and they get scared of how deeply they know each other and how that fear is taking an effect on their “morethanfriendshipbutwedidn’taskforthis” pleeease??

You’re covered in hot patches and most of them ache.  The blood’s tacky and coolness creeps up under your shirt, to your armpits where the sweat hasn’t dried, because you have your elbows on your knees.  And now your ass is properly wet from the ground.

Brian’s missed calls stare at you from the phone screen.  You’d sent him a text three hours ago saying you’d be late.  And this has happened before.

You climb off the ground, gingerly brushing yourself off.  Sam’s moving things back into the car and Dean’s looking at you from beside the pyre.  You weren’t meant to be here, but it got hairy at the last minute, so you came along.  A good thing too.

Leaning into the limp, you start an uneven pace around the clearing and bring up Brian’s number.  He deserves the call.

“Hey Brian,” you sigh.

“Where have you been?” he asks.  “Are you okay?”

Dean’s walking over to you, his gait a little stiff, and slows to a stop a yard or two off.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you tell him. You give up with the pacing - stupid idea.  “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.  Work was um, occupying.”

“Y/N, I don’t think I can do this.  This is the fourth time you’ve stood me up.”

You take a deep breath, interrupting yourself with a wince from the ribs.  Dean comes closer, watching you listen to your civilian boyfriend break up with you and kill off your current chance at normalcy.

“I get that your work is important, whatever it is.  You know I see how beat up you get-” Brian sighs, and you listen to him be a good person.  

You lick your lips, look up at the forest, skeletal trees looming in the fire’s glow, and change ears, wishing you were sitting down again.  “Yeah, I know.”

Dean comes close now, a foot away, his left shoulder facing your right, and he slides his fingers into your palm.  You squeeze back and hold him there.

“It’s not sensible for me to get in deeper with you and worry  _while also_  being stuffed around,” says Brian.  Dean squeezes back.

“I understand.  I’m sorry I can’t make it work Brian.”  It’s been a big night of stress and strain, including a proper near miss.  All three of you got a fright from how close you came to being killed.  You don’t have it in you to say more than the respectful minimum.  If you cry now, it won’t just be about being a crappy girlfriend, it’ll be about everything.

“I hope your friends take care of you, Y/N.  I wish I’d met them, uh, Dan and Dean?”

“Sam.  _Sam_  and Dean.”  You glance at Dean and smile a little.

“No, I remember Dean,” Brian adds.  “Couldn’t forget him.”

Behind you, Sam calls “You guys okay?” and Dean nods back, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles as you begin to say “Okay, well I better let you go.  I’m sorry, Brian.  At least it wasn’t you.”

“To be honest, Y/N, it wasn’t you either.  It’s what you do.  Look after yourself okay?”

“Okay.  Bye Brian.”

“Bye Y/N.”

You swallow the tight bitterness down, push your lower lip up, pout it out, roll it in, bite it down, and again when you try to fill your lungs it stings half full and the wince makes your chin buckle.  You shake your head in surrender.  It’s just been a shit night.

Dean turns you to him, his palm on your jaw as he hugs across your shoulders.  You pin your arms across the back of his waist and pull in a few shaky breaths, let a few tears drop.

All those aching marks, they seem to ebb away for a moment.  You feel like telling him  _You are my warm, achy patch_ and smile at the thought.  

His thumb rubs again, back and forth before your ear, and you hug him as tight as your injuries allow. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

This must be your favourite place, where you can hear his voice inside its own body.  “‘S’not your fault.”

“I’m sorry you can’t get out but… glad you’re staying.”

“Ugh, you always with the silver-lining,” you sniff, wiping your cheeks and pulling away.  He huffs  _Oh always_  and you laugh too, hiccuping at the pain.

“What the hell did you hurt?” He starts gathering up your shirt with his fingers, checking the ribs.  You lift your elbow and let him see, and he sucks his teeth at the view, pressing rough fingertips around the site to see better.  “Gotta get that looked at.”

“Mmm.”

When he lowers your shirt he stands there, almost beside you, facing the car, and his fingers find the inside of your wrist again, loose but sure…  “You need help?”

You don’t even see him any more - not since you started dating Brian, you realise - but you always know where he is.  Like you had to disengage from this friendship so you could give Brian a proper chance.  Now it’s as though if you look at Dean properly, if you face him so that your centre’s align, you’ll be locked in, forever in step.  You’ve been looking down on purpose.

You turn toward the car, pulling yourself from his gentle hold, and when you check to see if he notices, or cares, he watches you.  You’re hiding it from yourselves, you know.

Your first step is haltingly stiff, and Dean’s there after a second, but you flatten your hands as if to say you’re fine.  So he watches you hobble, from the side, matching your slow pace.

Sam stands inside the open passenger door, watching you both.  He catches Dean’s eye, giving the slightest of resigned smiles, the twitch of an eyebrow.  He sees his brother look at the dark horizon, weigh it all up and make a decision.  Dean takes your hand again.  His palm is large and dry, the knuckles sticky in places, and his fingers seem to go all the way around, and you don’t let go because that would officially be lying.


End file.
